He cast down the whip, into the straw. This frightened me. I would rather he had held to it.
“We have our sorces of information,” he said. “It has come to our attention that the prisoner has escaped. This was a long time ago. It seems almost certain he would seek to return to Ar. His presence in the city could significantly alter matters. Furthermore, there is some reason to believe that he may now be in the city.”
I understood almost nothing of this.
“Strangely enough,” he said, “it seems he is unaware of his own identity, the result, I take it, of some trauma or injury. Further, perhaps, in part due to the consequences of the aforesaid trauma or injury, he may no longer be easily recognizable. In short, at present, it seems he knows neither himself nor is he known by others.”
He turned to face me.
“You, of course,” he said, “could recognize him instantly, for you know him as he is now, from Treve.”
I lay on the stones, frightened, bound.
“It is he who was Prisoner 41, in corridor of nameless prisoners, in the pits of Treve. We have all this from the administration in Treve. Indeed, you are apparently one of the very few people who could recognize him, and the only one whose location we know.”
He approached me, a stop or two.
I rose to my knees, frightened. I pulled at the cords on my wrists.
“You might suggest, of course,” he said, “that your life be spared, that you might identify this fellow for us, the party of Cos, that we might then repair the oversight of Treve, by removing him from the picture, but we have considered, and rejected, that possibility. As you are a slave, and he is a free man, you cannot be trusted to identify him. You would surely suspect that you would be marking him out for death. You would then, presumably, pretend not to recognize him, even if you did. Too, you would be clever enough to know that your life might then be worthless, that either we, or those of Ar, learning of what you have done, and, in particular, as you are a slave, might deal with you summarily, and those of Ar rather unpleasantly. As a slave, too, you would know the penalties for bringing harm, either directly or indirectly, to a free person.”
I shuddered.
“I see you do,” he said.
“The danger then,” he said, “is that you might identify him for others, for those favorable to the cause of Ar. The underground in Ar, you see, the resistance to the occupation, in particular, a band of brigands, the Delka Brigade, mostly veterans of the campaign in the delta of the Vosk, must not locate him. He could be used, you see, even in his state, as a rallying point for resistance.”
I recalled the man in the garden, and his questions, which had frightened me so. I doubted that he was in league with the Cosians.
“Accordingly,” he said, “given the information at our disposal, and your putative location, I have been sent to Ar to preclude that possibility.”
Then I rose, unsteadily, to my feet. I backed away from him.
“There is no escape fro you,” he said.
I felt the wall behind me.
“It was for this purpose,” I asked, “ that you had me at your feet, begging use?”
“I have wanted you there, begging use,” he said, “ for a long time.”
“I had thought,” I said, “that when you had come here, looking for me, that you might care for me.”
“I hate you,” he said.
“Or,” I said, “that even if you hated me, that you wanted me, that you desired me, that you would have me at your feet, helplessly subject in all things to your imperious will.”
“You may scream, if you wish,” he said, “but it will not be heard. You may run about, if you wish, but it will do you no good.”
I regarded him, in misery.
‘Kneel here,” he said, pointing to a place at his feet.
Obediently, helplessly, I approached him, and cold and numb, knelt before him.
“Put your head back,” he said.
I did so.
“Farther,” he said.
I complied.
I felt his head in my hair, holding my head back, painfully. I saw the movement of his arm. Then I saw the blade, removed from his sheath, held before my face. I recalled how easily it had parted the cords on my ankles.
“Do you wish to say anything?” he asked.
“You are my master,” I said. “I love you.”
“You lie to the end,” he said.
“I do not like to my master,” I said.
I felt his hand tighten in my hair. My head was pulled back, farther. I heard the blade touch the collar, beneath it. Then I felt its edge, like a fine, hard line, at my throat. I closed my eyes.
He suddenly cried out in rage and drew the knife away.
He leaped to his feet and, in fury, fled to the other side of the room. He threw down the knife. He struck the wall with his fists.
I collapsed to the stones, scarcely believing myself alive.
“How absurd,” he cried, in anger, “to love a slave!”
“Master?” I said.
He spun about. “Yes!” he cried. “I love you, you worthless slut, you meaningless thing! I have loved you, madly, insanely, uncontrollably, recklessly, violently, from the first moment I saw you!”
“Master,” I breathed, unable to believe my ears.
“Yes!” cried he. “Call me ‘Master’! It is fitting, for you are a slave, and will never be other than that!”
“Yes, Master!” I said.
“You are no more than a branded slut, no more than meaningless, worthless collar meat!” he cried.
“Yes, Master!” I cried.
“You are unworthy to be a free woman!”
“I hope so, Master,” I said.
“What?” he cried.
“-I hope so, Master,” I whispered.
“Slave!” he sneered.
“Yes, Master,” I said. “It is true. That is what I am.”
“Disgusting!” he said.
“No!” I cried. “No!”
“Do you dare speak back to me?” he cried.
“With master’s permission!” I cried.
“You will never be a free woman!” he said.
“Nor do I wish to be a free woman!” I said. “I have been free! I know what it is like! I am content to be a slave, and wish to be a slave! I am fulfilled in bondage, in ways that you, a man, or some men, may never understand! Oh, yes, you enslave us for your gratifications and pleasures, you monsters, you beasts! But what you do not know is that we love our bonds, and our belonging, and our being owned, and being helplessly subject to the magnificence, the glories, even to the whip, of your total, uncompromised mastery of us! Do you not know we want men to be strong, and our masters? Let the twisted and hormonally deficient conceal their seekings of power under the pratings of rhetorics. Let others of us who long to love and serve, and obey, and be desired, dream of masters! — yes, masters! — our masters!”
He looked down upon me, and I realized that these things to him, a man of Gor, were not that strange.
He was not a stranger to the nature of females.
“I am a slave,” I whispered.
“It is well known to me that you are a slave-legally,” he said. “I can see your collar, the brand.”
“It is more than that,” I wept. “I am a slave inwardly, in my need, and in my love, and in my nature! It is what I am! Despise me for it, if you wish! I am a natural slave, a rightful slave, and here, on this world, in my collar, I have found myself at last! Hate me! Hold me in contempt! But I am a slave, and I love being a slave! I love it! I love it! Do not try to force me to be what you want me to be! Rather accept me for what I want to be, and am! — one who knows she belongs at the feet of men! — and desires to be at the feet of men! — their slave! — their loving slave!”
“I do not understand myself,” he said.
“Master?”